


a few hundred words in the wind

by orphan_account



Series: all of our magics [6]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, But also, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, philip has a crush on georges but its one-sided, theyre buds tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-02 21:33:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14553984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's late, it's storming, and there's a visitor.





	a few hundred words in the wind

Theodosia, Philip, and Laurens were at the Hamilton’s, one stormy evening, testing Philip’s ability to come up with new spells on the spot. That meant Theodosia and Laurens were looking around the room and ordering Philip to make something happen. It was fun, really, until the lantern incident.

“Make that lantern float,” Laurens suggested. As soon as Laurens had said it, Theodosia began counting the seconds it took for Philip to complete an incantation.

 

_“You give us light,_

_Become lighter than air;_

_Forsake the ground,_

_To be close to our hair.”_

 

But what Philip said, well, Theodosia could tell that it didn’t quite match up with his intent. Immediately, Theodosia dropped to the floor, and was lucky she did. The lantern now floated above her, just where her head had been, and had gotten there quicker than one might expect. “Philip,” she said in a warning tone, “make the lantern _stop_ floating.”

“Please cease,” Philip asked the lantern, with a bit of embarrassment in his voice. But this was the second part of the lantern incident. See, the lantern _did_ comply, just, a bit _too_ well.

“The lantern disappeared,” Laurens announced unhelpfully.

Philip groaned. “That’s the third one this _week.”_

Bemusedly, Theodosia stood up with some hesitance. “The third one?”

Accusingly, Philip looked at Laurens. “I don’t know why, but He’s been taking an interest in magicking lanterns all the sudden.”

Shaking his head, Laurens held up his hands in mock surrender. “In my defense, it’s hilarious.” Then, he bit his lip and tilted his head to the side. “Actually, that was the last lantern and it’s just about sundown. We should probably ask your father if he can conjure a semi-permanent flame or something.”

Though she was nodding in agreement, Theodosia sighed regretfully and dropped onto the bed. “Mrs Hamilton makes them better.”

“God, I _know,”_ Philip groaned. “She makes them so _colorful,_ but Pa’s are just plain. I wish she’d made one before she left. But she was in such a hurry to leave-”

“The notice from the Collection Restoration Commission was received really late, Eliza had to leave near immediately if she wanted to make it to the meeting,” Laurens explained to Theodosia.

“They wouldn’t start without her,” Philip said proudly, “She probably knows more about the Collections than the people who ran them!”

“My father told me about the Collections, once. I’m glad they’re rebuilding them,” Theodosia said wistfully. “I mean, I know we have our libraries, but Collections were something else, I hear.”

In the same sort of dreamy tone, Laurens nodded. “There are still many in Europe, but the Continental ones were all destroyed in the war. They were amazing, with beautiful architecture and thousands and thousands of spellbooks and Tomes and research notes dating back a thousand years, all preserved as if they were brand new. The ones in Europe have much more of a history, of course, and those are the ones I studied at, mainly. The ones in America, though; they were still grand, but they had a very… _American_ feel to them, I guess would be the only way to describe it. They were still grand, of course, but they always had areas under construction, and there was less of a prestigious air to everything. Instead, they were loud and full of cheers or groans depending on how somebody’s work was going. The information was new, not recycled hundreds of times over. Innovative. They were amazing,” Laurens finished in quiet nostalgia.

Astonished, Philip stared at Laurens. “You’ve been to a Collection?”

“In the Before,” Laurens clarified, with that same grin he always had while mentioning Philip’s silly name that somehow stuck. “I studied at one in Europe, and visited a few in America.” His face turned a bit mournful, and then he muttered, “I remember receiving the news that the New York Collection had been destroyed. The Tories had already held New York for a while, so none of us thought that they would _destroy_ it…”

His face, which had glowed with reverence only a few seconds before, was quickly approaching distraught. Laurens _never_ talked about his past, the Before, whatever you want to call it, so Theodosia knew that even the memory, which must’ve been buried so many feet under, was fresh and potent. And Laurens’ dedication didn’t just extend to his promises, it also extended to things: Friends, ideals, and also places, or so it seemed.

“Come on,” Theodosia interrupted, knowing that Laurens was in need of a distraction. “We should head down to ask Mr Hamilton for a lamp.”

 

* * *

 

As Laurens had predicted, Hamilton was more than happy to summon a flame for Philip to keep in his room. As soon as Philip had asked, Hamilton’s face lit up. “I’ve been practicing those,” he whispered excitedly. He motioned for Philip and Theodosia to sit on the sofa, and then ran into Eliza’s study so he could get the materials needed.

Giving a little smile to where Hamilton disappeared, Laurens turned to Philip and Theodosia. “What are your odds he’ll blow the house up?”

While Philip drew his finger over an eyebrow- meaning something like ‘it’s certain,’ Theodosia tugged at her right ear and then her left, which was along the lines of ‘only if we piss him off.’

A few seconds later, Hamilton emerged from the study, his arms full of more materials than he needed. “Eliza showed me how to make them with sparkles. Should I make some blue ones, to match the rain?”

“Oh, definitely,” Philip replied in earnest, leaning forwards a bit.

Conversely, Theodosia leaned backwards, tilting her head in what was almost suspicion. “But raindrops are a more clearish color,” she pointed out.

“Oh well,” Hamilton waved off, a smile stuck to his face. He spoke with his nose practically glued to the table he’d set the materials on, refusing to look up. “I like the color blue, so we’ll just have it blue for that reason, instead.”

Curious, Philip asked, “why d’you like blue?”

“It reminds me of someone,” Hamilton replied. If Laurens didn’t know Hamilton better, he would’ve said his tone had been casual. But Laurens _did_ know Hamilton better, and so he couldn’t help but feel an old Sanskrit incantation play at his lips.

 _If he gets curious about the lamps, let’s use the third Theodosia plan,_ Philip signed, and then said aloud, “Thank you for this, by the way.”

“Yes, thank you,” Theodosia agreed politely.

After a quick incantation that seemed to have no effect, Hamilton gave a quick, “no problem.” But, after a few seconds of what must’ve been thoughtful deliberation, Hamilton asked, “why do you need one of these, anyways? Did you just want to play around with it? Because, really, you should _not_ play with fire.”

Laurens, who was typically in charge of prompting for their little ‘plans,’ pointed at Philip. “Guilt.”

“I- I didn’t play with fire,” Philip said, suddenly looking as if he were caught red-handed in some terrible act. Theodosia, meanwhile, stared at the floor. “I just, the lanterns in my room, they’re sort of… gone.”

Confused, and slightly put at alarm by Philip’s guilt (for Philip was quite known for his troublemaking), Hamilton looked up. “Where have they gone to?”

Immediately, Laurens snapped the sign for ‘window.’

It was amazing, how well Philip was able to seem guilty, though Laurens suspected it may have just been a side effect from always being up to some mischief. There was always something for Philip to feel guilty over. “Sort of out of the window.”

“Out of the window?” For some reason, Hamilton’s face was incredulous, as if he didn’t understand all the trouble his son got up to.

It was barely a second after Laurens pointed at her that Theodosia blurted out, “it was my fault.”

A smile had to be repressed as Philip averted his eyes and Hamilton’s head swiveled to Theodosia. “What? If anything, you’re the one keeping him _out_ of trouble.”

At that, Laurens really did burst out laughing, because Theodosia certainly did the _opposite_ of _that_.

Even as Philip inconspicuously drew his fist from shoulder-to-shoulder, Theodosia performed her part wonderfully. “I try to do that, but lately I’ve just been so frustrated…” She shook her head, looking down at the floor. “My father, with all of the talk about it, he’s been telling me about how he studied at one of the Collections, and I guess that since I knew _I_ couldn't perform any sort of spells, I tried to get him to do it for me.” She looked towards Philip apologetically, and continued, “I drilled him on incantations and then tried to get him to make it float, and then, I threw the lantern out of the window, to get him to float it before it hit the ground. And… It didn’t work.”

“Theodosia,” Philip said, getting back into the swing of things, “it’s alright.”

“The lamp’s not alright,” Theodosia pointed out, a little sulkily.

Taking the opportunity to butt back into the conversation, Hamilton waved his hands wildly. “Maybe the lamp isn’t, but the situation is.” He sighed, and then moved around the materials on the table. “Philip… I’m sure he’s talked to you about it before, but Philip’s- the way his magic works is that it’s not at the same strength as everyone else’s.”

_Do you think he would still stand by that statement if I hexed him right here and now?_

Raising an eyebrow, Laurens gave a warning look to Philip as Hamilton fell silent trying to find the right words. Philip fell silent, too. Er, he stopped signing, that is.

“And I know Philip can sometimes be a bit… altruistic, so I think both of you need to understand that, especially when someone has different magic than you, it’s important that everyone sticks to their own boundaries. The both of you-”

Suddenly, a knock sounded from the front door, a sharp and clear sound. Hamilton’s head snapped that way, his face kept tight.

Even Laurens felt himself tense up, as thoughts raced through his head on whether or not the wards were holding up, and if the house was safe. Without thinking, he barked out orders, like he was back in the war. “Philip, Theodosia, get into the other room. You can eavesdrop from there, but if something goes wrong I expect the two of you to find all of Philip’s siblings and get to Theodosia’s house.”

Philip and Theodosia compiled without question.

It was almost as if Hamilton didn’t notice the kids running out of the room and hiding behind the doorway; instead, he had laser-focus on the door. Laurens followed Hamilton close behind as the latter walked forwards, a little bit of dread and a little bit of anticipation sitting in his own heart.

But when Hamilton opened the door, there was nothing but the pouring rain in the night, a single clap of thunder, and an exhausted-looking boy shivering on the doorstep.

The boy was that strange sort of familiar that could only be described as a result of déjà vu. His clothes may have been well-pressed and extravagant at one point, but that point was a ways away. His coat was drenched, and his stockings torn and muddied. He had no hat, so his hair clung to his face, which looked more than a little gaunt. His hands were completely hidden by dark gloves, which were just about the only things that weren’t torn. It seemed odd that only they would be enchanted, but that was the only explanation. The boy, breathing heavily as if he’d been running, looked up at Hamilton, his wide and wild eyes trying to gather every bit of information they could.

Despite the boy’s poor state, Laurens remained wary, and so did Hamilton. There had been rumors of late about plans to scare advocates of the Jay Treaty away from supporting it. From the whispers that Theodosia was able to pick up, it wasn’t too far out of the realm of possibility that this boy was a hired agent, or some sort of shapeshifter that could be dangerous if let into the wards. Hamilton seemed to be going through the same thought process, because he kept one hand firmly on the door handle and kept his face neutral.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Hamilton began, continuing even when the boy opened his mouth to interrupt, “Who are you? Are you lost?”

Almost guiltily, the boy shook his head. “Je peux pas- euh, je ne parle pas l’anglais. Parlez-vous..?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Laurens saw Theodosia sign out a translation for Philip.

“Oui,” Hamilton replied, his neutrality turning into slight wariness. “Pourquoi êtes-vous ici? Êtes-vous égaré?”

Biting his lip, the boy’s cheeks tinged red. Laurens wasn’t sure why. “Ma mère a envoyé ici. Je- je ne _sais_ pas que je suis égaré- euh… Êtes-vous Monsieur Hamilton? Alexander Hamilton, non?”

Slowly, Hamilton nodded, but said nothing.

A breath of relief escaped the boy’s lips. His shoulders sank, he closed his eyes and he threw his chin upwards a little, still shivering vehemently. The breath was almost indistinguishable from a groan of anguish. “Oh, dieu merci,” he muttered low enough so that it was likely not heard by Theodosia or Philip. After a quiet moment, he turned his focus back to Hamilton. “Ma mère- elle a envoyé ici. Mon père est un ami de vous-”

“Qui-est ton père?” Hamilton seemed to be on edge now, which Laurens vaguely understood. Hamilton had met a number of Frenchmen during the American Revolution, Laurens knew. Many were from Frahencell, and many were residents of this world’s France, where the majority of the French Revolution had been taking place. “Qu’est-ce son nom?”

“Je- je ne- je- _merde-_ je ne peux pas te dire,” the boy said, a little defensively. “Mais, j’ai- euh, ici.”

Finally, the boy unraveled his arms from around his chest. His shaking right hand tugged his glove off of his shaking left hand, a slow process for so tense of a moment. Once he’d gotten it off completely, he placed it in the grasp of the hand that it’d covered. Then, with an almost pitiful, dragging speed, the boy reached out his arm as if attempting to give the glove to Hamilton, but at the very last moment, he turned his wrist so that it faced the ceiling, and pulled his sleeve down.

Unsurprisingly, the boy had a mark- the mark of a demon. But that wasn’t what alarmed Laurens. It was the mark, itself, that did that. A simple flower, with seven petals. Laurens looked to Hamilton, in shock, but Hamilton didn’t seem to get it.

 _Good god,_ Laurens thought, _if the boy was here, that meant..._

“Vous êtes un démon,” Hamilton said unnecessarily.

The boy coughed heavily; apparently the cold of night combined with the drench of the rain had begun to affect him. “Mon père a- a une marque,” he said, and used his right hand, still gloved, to point to a space just below his left eye, “ici.”

Hamilton’s gaze slid from the boys wrist to his face, and his lips parted. The expression on his face wasn’t surprise. Even shock wasn’t a strong enough word. “C’etait une étoile,” Hamilton whispered.

“Seven points,” Laurens said in the same tone, uselessly. “Seven petals.”

Once he’d gotten over his shock, Hamilton ushered the boy inside. “Pourquoi tu ne m’as-tu pas dit qui t’es?”

“Les- les noms,” the boy said, now trembling more than shivering. “Ces sont dangereux. Trés dangereux.”

“Goddamnit, Hamilton,” Laurens muttered aloud, without meaning to. “Get him warm first, he’s still shivering.”

This was said despite the fact Hamilton couldn’t hear him. Neither could the boy. But, Philip...

“You should warm him up,” piped up Philip, peeking out from behind the door he and Theodosia had hidden behind.

Confused, Pa turned to Philip. “Huh?”

“He came in from the rain,” Philip said, glancing at the still-dripping boy. The latter seemed to only barely be able to hear Philip, tucking his arms back into himself and looking at the floor so the wet from his hair didn’t run into his eyes. “You should dry him. There has to be some spell for that, right?”

“Right,” his Pa said, a little distracted, he said the incantation for a spell to dry the boy, and then one that seemed to avoid doing a quick job of warming him.

Confused, Philip glanced back towards Theodosia, as his Pa was busy guiding the boy over to a couch and He was watching them both solemnly. He signed, _why isn’t the spell warming him up faster?_

But Theodosia just shook her head, smiling at Philip as she stepped into the room. _So he doesn't go into shock from the sudden heat after being cold for so long._

Nodding, Philip watched as Theodosia walked up to his Pa, who was watching the now-sitting boy with potent concern. “Mr Hamilton,” she said quietly, “I’m going to head home.” Philip saw her glance over to the boy, and his eyes flicker up to Theodosia in return. Theodosia nodded to the boy, and he returned the gesture, though almost imperceptibly.

Then, Theodosia was gone.

After a few moments of distracted thought, Pa said, “je reviens vite,” and then headed in the direction of his office.

There was a sudden realization that Philip was alone with the boy, besides Him. But even He looked so far off in thought that Philip was sure that He only remained in body, if an intangible being could have a body.  Carefully, Philip examined the boy. His figure was curled in on itself, but his hands, while Philip would have tucked them under his arms, were clutched at the center of his chest, one glove still being held instead of worn.

Without a thought, Philip stood, kneeled in front of the boy, and put his hands on his, tugging on them slightly. The boy immediately looked up, almost alarmed, but didn’t pull his hands away. Philip tugged on them again, and the boy, confused, let Philip take them.

Once the nonverbal permission had been given, Philip worked the glove out of the boy’s tight grip, and put it back onto his hand. “Is that okay?”

A faint smile came onto the boy’s face as he looked at his newly gloved hand. With the three middle fingers of his right hand, he traced over his mark through the fabric of the glove. The shivers that wracked the boy’s body were fading, and he seemed to be becoming more lucid. Even when he’d been talking to Pa, Philip could tell that the boy was running on determination alone. A voice in Philip’s head noted how much the boy looked better, especially when he looked up and gave a grateful little smile to Philip.

Philip told the voice to shut up, trying not to let a blush spread across his face. He stood again, and made to walk away, but the boy grabbed at his hand before Philip could walk off. There was confusion on the boy’s face, and his eyes were focused on nothing in particular, like he was trying to pick up a faint sound from afar. “Ton magie,” he said, slowly, “c’est… _bizarre.”_

Panic shot up through Philip’s shoulders. “You can’t tell anyone,” Philip whispered, before realizing that the boy couldn’t understand him. “It’s a secret,” he rephrased, thinking that he remembered it from the conversations Theodosia and Him sometimes had about how similar French and English were. “A big secret.”

Concern turned to solemnity. “Est-ce un secret dangereux?”

“Dangerous,” Philip muttered. “Yes.”

“Comme avec le mien,” the boy said, mostly to himself, with a grave smile. But then, something seemed to pull at his mind. An idea. He pulled on Philip’s hand, gesturing for him to sit down. Philip did so bemusedly. Almost suspicious, the boy scanned the room before cupping his hands around Philip’s ear, and whispering, “Mon nom. C’est Georges.”

Unable to keep his face from flushing red, Philip nodded dumbly. “I’m Philip.”

It was possible for Philip to pinpoint the exact moment Georges noticed Philip’s blush. Luckily, it was the exact same time his Pa came back into the room.

Sitting up like a gun was fired nearby, Philip watched as his father marched to a couch opposite the one Philip and Georges were at. Instead of sitting at it, though, he began placing books down from a huge stack that he was carrying. The only thing he was carrying that wasn’t a book was an oddly-shaped stone. “Hey, Philip,” his father muttered, “come over here. I need you to find the volume on transformations from rituals to spells. It should have notes in my handwriting.”

Thankful for the distraction, Philip immediately got to work, listening to his Pa talk to himself in a mixture of languages. He found it in a dusty old book that must’ve been left alone since before he’d been born, with notes in that same mix of languages his father spoke now, each word chosen for efficiency of meaning and space. “Here,” Philip said quietly, handing the book over to his father. “What do you need it for?”

“Making some dangerous magic safe,” Pa replied, distracted as he read. He took the book Philip had found and balanced it, open, in the crook of one arm, while he had his Tome cradled open in his other. He had the odd rock held in both hands in front of his chest.

After just a few seconds, he began chanting in a language that sounded nothing like Philip had ever heard before, but still familiar. Then, He, who had been leaning against a wall, lost in thought, suddenly snapped up his head, looking almost alarmed. He found Philip’s gaze, and almost demanded, “what is he doing?”

Feeling some secondhand concern, Philip signed quickly, _he’s doing some magic. Pa said he was making dangerous magic safe._ But, that didn’t seem to reassure Him that much.

And then, finally, the chanting ended. The stone glowed faintly, and radiated a misty blue light. Philip and Georges looked at each other, both unsure of what happened. Meanwhile, He looked strangely at Pa with an emotion that Philip couldn’t quite describe.

“Okay,” Pa said nervously, “does everyone understand me?”

“Yes, perfectly,” said Philip, at the same time Georges said, “I do.”

Philip looked at Georges, and Georges looked at Philip. “You’re speaking French,” said Georges, while Philip exclaimed, “you can speak English!”

“Neither of you are bilingual,” Pa muttered to the both of them, placing his Tome down with the other books and flipping through the one Philip had found. “It’s a translation ritual. It’s actually blood magic, but a while back I was looking into how to- damnit,” his father said, rifling back through the book for a page he’d flipped past. “The way the quasi-ritual should work is that I have an unimpeded charge on a primary second-catalyst, rather than a first-catalyst, which is _supposed_ to halve the situation affect while lengthening dura- none of you are listening to me, are you?”

From the salty look on His face, Philip guessed that He had been listening. That was odd, because He didn’t even use technical magical speech- that was typically Theodosia. Well, He did have a good vocabulary, so maybe He was just guessing the terms.

Shrugging, Philip lied, “I lost you at ‘bilingual.’”

Georges snickered into his glove.

Rolling his eyes, Pa walked forwards and gave the odd stone to Georges. “This stone is what the spell was cast with. As long as you keep it near you, you should be able to understand anyone who speaks to you.”

“I can feel it,” Georges murmured, running his hands over the stone. “I’ve never felt a _spell_ radiating from an object before…” He paused, like he had when reading Philip’s magic. “It’s pulsating. With every beat, it’s weakening, but very slowly.”

Pa walked back to the couch that held all the books, somehow managing to find a spot to sit down. “When you feel it getting weak, recharge it. I’m not an expert in demonic magics, but I’m sure it can be done.” Georges nodded in affirmation.

But none of this seemed to satisfy Him. From where He stood against the wall, He had only bewilderment on His face. “Philip,” He started, unsure. “Ask your father if he developed this magic, and if he says yes, ask when and why.”

Trying not to act too suspicious, Philip piped up, “I’ve never heard of this magic, not even from Theodosia.”

Giving a short smile as he studied his own writing, Pa replied, “I made it, just after you were born, for a friend to use.”

 _That went well,_ Philip signed, but He didn’t reply.

But Georges seemed to deflate. “Mister Hamilton, about my father-”

“I- right,” Pa replied, sobering up quite quickly. “Is he..?”

“He’s still in prison,” Georges muttered, breathing out a little. “My mother, she sent me here, with the plan to take herself and my sisters to join my father. I’m supposed to stay here until I can arrange transportation to get to Mount Vernon.”

In a tone that almost bared pity, Philip’s father asked, “how did you get from Frahencell to here?”

“Ships and changeling magic,” Georges said tonelessly, staring at his feet. “My mother found some books, and my father- my father taught me how to read spells and be able to recreate them with demonic magic, when I was little. I changed my appearance, and booked passage on a ship, and I arrived a week ago.”  He looked up suddenly, distraught. “You have to find a way to help them, Mister Hamilton! They didn’t- they didn’t do anything wrong!” Philip looked on, in horror, as Georges almost choked on his own sobs.

Immediately, Pa rushed over to Georges, and wrapped his arms around the boy, his eyebrows knitted in concerned thought as he held the shaking Georges.

“He loves our country!” Philip wanted, so badly, to be able to take all of Georges’ pain away. But he didn’t know how. “My father, the Jacobins think he’s a royalist and the royalists think he’s a Jacobin! Someone has to help him, and my mother, and my sisters-!” Georges’ breath hitched, and he fell silent and still, except for the slight shaking of his shoulders.

From across the room, He looked on with horror. He’d placed His hand over his mouth, his eyes wide.

Quietly, Philip stood up and placed a hand on Georges’ shoulder. In response, he looked up, and Pa disentangled himself from the comfort hug. “I’ll show you upstairs. You should get to sleep.”

“I don’t want-”

“But you _need_ ,” Philip interrupted stubbornly. He pulled up Georges, who reluctantly let himself stand. Philip picked up the catalyst-stone with one hand, and used the other to take Georges’ and press the stone into his open palm. “We have a few empty rooms, so you can take your pick, but you’re going to get some sleep.”

Without glancing up, Georges used his free hand to run his fingers over the stone. He didn’t remove Philip’s hand from his own, which made Philip’s sudden run of confidence turn into a flustering mess.

“We should go upstairs,” he whispered, taking his hands away, and turning, only stopping to make sure that Georges followed. While turning back, Philip caught His eye, and was unamused to find Him gaping. Philip signed as he walked forwards, _What?_

“When did _that_ happen?” He detached himself from His wall, and followed by Philip’s side.

_Nothing happened._

“You looked like a tomato. Something happened.”

_Shut up. At least let me help- er, can I give him a sign to name him, or would that endanger him?_

“As long as he doesn’t accept that it belongs to him, it’s safe. What sign were you thinking of?”

Feeling his cheeks go red again, Philip gave the sign; he ran his thumb over his bottom lip. _Georges._

“Something happened.”

Ignoring Him, Philip, having arrived at the hall that held the guest rooms, faced Georges. “If you’re feeling up to it, you could probably bathe before you sleep. It’d give me enough time to get your clothes fixed up, if you want.”

Disbelievingly, Georges exclaimed, “you surely aren’t going to go see a tailor at this hour!”

“Of course not,” Philip replied. He looked around, before whispering, “I can use my magic.”

Shrugging, He butted in, “and you do it better than a tailor would, too.”

Giving a short smile, Georges shrugged. “I appreciate the thought, but I would much prefer if I went to sleep as soon as possible.”

Nodding, Philip returned the smile. “I get it. Here, you can sleep in this room, but if you need me-” Philip launched into a detailed explanation of how to find his room, and then his father’s. “I usually get up a bit late, anyways, so don’t be afraid to wake me up.”

“I’ll be fine,” Georges said soothingly. “And, thank you.”

“I’m glad to help,” Philip responded. “Have a good night.”

“I- wait.” Georges placed a hand on Philip’s shoulder, stopping him. “I just want to say that I don’t mean to lead you to believe that I see you as anything other than a friend.”

Mortified, Philip began blushing furiously. “I didn’t, er-”

“It’s fine,” Georges interrupted, much to Philip’s relief. “I just wanted to say thank you, for being my friend, in a time I very much need one.”

“I’m glad I can be one,” Philip returned with a faint smile. “Now go. Go get some sleep.”

 

* * *

 

Later, Philip woke up to Georges pushing open his door. It wasn't too much of a concern that He was absent, since Philip knew that He tended to wander the house at night due to His inability to sleep. Georges’ eyes, lit by the soft, pulsating glow of the catalyst-stone he cradled to his chest, were red and puffy. “I couldn’t sleep,” he murmured, once he saw that Philip was awake.

In response, Philip patted the bed beside him. “We can talk, if you want.”

“I’m not sure,” Georges said, though he walked over to sit on the bed. “It’s just, I feel so out of place. I’ve been sleeping on the ground for the past week, and on a crowded ship before that. It feels weird to lay in a bed again.” He laughed a little. “Is that odd?”

“I don’t think so.” Philip leaned back onto his pillow, staring at the ceiling. “I still can’t go to sleep without being told a bedtime story. Is that odd?”

Nudging Philip’s shoulder, Georges said, “I don’t think so. What sort of stories do you like, then?”

“The ones in the stars,” Philip answered. “Even if it ends sadly, they’re always put in the stars, and there’s something beautiful about that.”

There was a few silent moments, before Georges whispered, “I’m scared. I’m _so_ scared.”

Looking up at Georges, Philip felt one of his heartstrings break. He was older than Philip, and there was something strange in seeing anybody older than him show such emotional vulnerability. But then, Philip remembered that this was his friend. They may have met a short time ago, and maybe Philip blushed every time they made eye contact, but they were friends. And, when a friend was in need...

Comfortingly, Philip placed his hand on Georges’ knee. “I can’t help you. Really, You can’t help either. I’m not going to lie to you. It sucks, but neither of us can help.”

“...What can I do, then?”

Drawing his lips into a thin line, Philip shrugged. “Cry. You can cry.”

That, somehow, made Georges laugh. “Your advice _sucks.”_

“Is there anything else you _can_ do?”

“No,” Georges said. “I guess not.”

Soon, Philip managed to get Georges to lay down. It took a lot of coaxing, of whispered words and half-baked assurances, to get Georges to combat the tense and anxious and mournful manner he’d put on. And eventually, the two of them were drifting off to sleep, but their voices still mingled in the midnight air.

The last thing Philip remembered, before they went to sleep, was a short exchange of words.

“Philip?”

“Yeah?”

“You said you liked stories about the constellations because no matter what, they’re put in the stars.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think that… That there are still stories that are put into the stars? Even today?”

“All of them are put into stars,” Philip said, truth ringing out in his sleep-deprived state. “Every single one.”

“So no matter how this ends-”

But Georges fell asleep before he could finish the thought, and Philip was asleep just a second afterwards.

 

* * *

 

That night, the only story Laurens could think of to tell Philip was that of Rumpelstiltskin. He could only think about names, all that night. About travelling through the woods only to hear that goblin’s name; about summoning a demon only to hear a name longer than he could remember but too dear to ever forget. Some had called the demon Marquis, most had called him Lafayette, and if you wanted to tease him, you would call him Gilbert. But mostly everyone who befriended him couldn’t help but be enthralled by the gravity of his full name. And he would gladly teach the entirety of it to anybody who asked.

God, Laurens still knew the whole thing- how could he _not?-_ but he was still afraid to even _think_ it.

There was a memory playing about Laurens’ head, of being told that a demon’s mark reflected their personality. Maybe it did, maybe it didn’t. Laurens didn’t know. But, what he _did_ know was that Lafayette’s mark, by itself, was perfectly representable of its owner. A star, bright and jovial. It was on his cheek, so that it moved with his ever-present smile. And it was visible. So very visible, radiating like a beacon, like the North Star on Earth.

For a demon to be cursed, one needed to know the demon’s name and mark. And Lafayette, well, he hid neither.

The only inaccuracy about his mark was that it had seven points. Seven was too lucky a number.

Sighing, Laurens rose from the rocking chair he typically sat at while telling Philip stories. He walked out of the open door, and found himself walking blankly until he found himself at Hamilton’s office. The man himself was scratching at a parchment with a quill distractedly, every so often stopping to glare at his glasses, as if being angry about having to wear them would mean that he wouldn’t have to anymore.

“Put on your damn glasses, Hamilton,” Laurens said out loud, his voice ringing in the silence.

Hamilton didn’t respond.

Scoffing at himself, Laurens walked across the room and sat on the end of Hamilton’s desk, watching him write. “This is pretty sad, right? I’m dead because of my own intentional recklessness, having a conversation that’s as interactive as talking to a brick. And even as I say that out loud, I _refuse to stop talking._ Pretty sad, I know.”

He let a hand run over his eyebrows, scratch at his nose, just about anything he could do to fill up the empty seconds. “God, do you know how _angry_ this makes me? How much I wish I could be there to help the marquis and his son, but I’m stuck here!” Laurens stepped away from the desk, twirling about in the center of the office, completely away from it all. “I don’t even know where ‘here’ is! Is it some pocket dimension, or some layer on top of your reality? I don’t know!”

Clutching his head, Laurens began pacing. “Insane, insane, insane! I’m going insane. I haven’t had conversations with anyone besides two preteens who are both smarter than me for just about twelve years! God, we always made fun of _you_ for being a Scottish tragedy, but it’s me!”

Laughing, laughing a bit madly, Laurens, let himself collapse and fall onto the floor. He laughed until it wasn’t funny anymore, until he was just some stranger lying on the floor of the office of someone he once knew.

Once he was bored of that, Laurens let himself stand, his eyes heavy even though he was unable to sleep. He walked over, behind Hamilton’s shoulder. “Well, there, Ham. You’re lucky you’re not writing poetry, because I am _not_ averse to showing it to Theodosia and your son. You know, the fish-eater thing is _still_ going around. You really shouldn’t let Theodosia ever get angry with you. Now, what is it that you’re writing?” Laurens leant forwards, reading. There had been several pages already written of this missive, and this looked to be the last or so page.

Snippets of words and phrases caught Laurens’ attention. _“The most charming member of the Family,”_ and _“the son of our dear Star,”_ and _“his request to be admitted asylum at the Place of his father’s greatest friend,”_ and _“the complexity of the foreign affairs involved in making these arrangements,”_ and _“my own belief that such an Arrangement might not be profitable in our current and most prominent situation of International affairs.”_

And then, it hit Laurens. “You don’t think we should send help to the Marquis.”

A feeling like horror swept throughout every inch of Laurens’ form. It was as if somebody had managed to pick him up and place him on the moon. “How could you..? Is this just another matter of me being- heh, dead set in my ways? Is this you thinking that you’re adapting to some new situation? Or is this just you only thinking of what’s right in front of you?”

Laurens didn’t know why he paused before continuing. His eyes were prickling with the threat of tears, now. His voice was raising and falling hysterically, and for the first time since the war, Laurens felt the need to race his hands through his hair.

“Even ignoring the fact that he’s probably the kindest person to ever exist on the face of the Earth, we were the ones to summon him. And I- I’m _dead!_ I can’t do my part to take care of him! That’s up to you now, and-!”

Out of frustration, Laurens kicked at Hamilton’s desk. His foot and leg were suddenly filled with pain, but no damage was done to the gracefully carved wood. “It’s not fair!” Laurens shouted, fury gaining in his chest. “You know, I’d told you before that you were just about the only person I didn’t want to run through with a sword, but it’s only when I’m physically unable to stab anyone that you decide to act like _this.”_

Shaking his head, Laurens let out a whisper of, “damnit, won’t you argue with me?” It was, of course, a useless statement, but at this point, it was all that Laurens had left. “I want you to argue with me. I want you to roll your eyes at me when I get too angry to form meaningful sentences. I want you to debate me and talk me into circles, and then laugh when I get frustrated, and then tell me that I was right the entire time.” He ambled back over to Hamilton’s desk, managing to find a spot where he could sit cross-legged as he watched Hamilton write. He let the tears finally, _finally_ fall from his face. “I miss you, Ham. I miss you so damn much, and you don’t even know I’m here. But I _am_ here. Right beside you.”

Hamilton didn’t respond.

Maybe Laurens sat there for a few seconds. Maybe he sat there for a few minutes, maybe he sat there for hours on end- but there was no end. For an eternity, there was only the sound of his own muffled breath, and of a cursed quill scratching a letter into parchment.

It was long enough for Laurens to believe that maybe the world had always worked like this. That he was and always had been and always would be some guardian observer without the ability to guard. Maybe it had only ever been like this, with Laurens sitting there, longingly, hopelessly in love with someone who could never even know of his admirer’s existence.

And then, everything changed. Hamilton stopped writing mid-sentence. Laurens duly looked up, placing bets against himself whether or not Hamilton would actually put on his glasses this time. But this didn’t seem to be the same internal conflict as had enveloped the man previously. No, definitely not. As Hamilton pushed his chair back, Laurens watched curiously. Hamilton’s eyes glided over the room, looking for something that wasn’t there.

Almost afraid, Hamilton whispered out, “Laurens?”

As much as he’d imagined this moment, Laurens didn’t immediately jump up and place his forehead on Hamilton’s as he whispered sweet everythings in the hopes that they’d be heard, finally. Instead, he found himself frozen, flabbergasted that his name would be spoken.

“Laurens,” Hamilton said once more, with a pleading, a _supplication,_ such that Laurens had never heard something so potent before or again. “Laurens, I think my soul has turned dark. Are you even here anymore? I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t. Oh, Laurens.”

And maybe, once upon a time, Laurens could’ve responded. But not here. Not today.

Instead, Laurens did the only thing he could think to do. He wrapped his arms around Hamilton, the short utterance of, “I’m here,” echoing from his solemn lips again and once more. He muttered that, muttered it through tears and chokes and sobs.

It went unheard, though, all of those assurances. They merely floated on by, past Hamilton’s ear, just a few hundred words in the wind.

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys! I'm going to be putting this series on hold until school's over for me. i have more than a few exams left and i need to put a focus on school for the time being. Once summer's started, I'll have much more time to work on this fic, which should hopefully mean both more frequent updates and better quality writing.  
> I would like to note that I didn't include georges' tutor, mainly for the plot and also i couldn't find anything on him except for his name.  
> Best wishes, and have an amazing day <3


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